Within the Veil
by EchoRose480
Summary: Reveal fic!Whump! Merlin is murdered in front of Arthur. In the seconds before he dies, he casts a spell in his mind. Now his soul is in a metaphysical form, a spectating ghost. He struggles to contact Arthur, and then save the world from destruction. Will Merlin come back to life? Will they be able to save the world, and each other? No slash! Reveal fic! TEMPORARYGhost!Merlin!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Ahahahahaha! I bet you thought I was dead, didn't you? Didn't you?! **

**Well, I'm not. Just largely busy and veritably lazy. So here's my next story. I'm not sure how many chapters it'll be, but we'll see what happens. Love you guys and hope you enjoy it!**

**Don't forget to pop a review!**

...

Merlin was forced to watch in horror as a knife was slid with doctoral care between his ribs. And that, he realized, quite possibly could have been the lowest point of his day.

It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. More so than he ever could have imagined, or articulated. In fact, he suddenly knew why exactly it _was_ that people screamed when they were in pain. Because sometimes, words just wouldn't do it. Words couldn't begin to describe the agony which ruptured in his body as the knife disappeared inch by inch into his chest.

But he couldn't scream. Nay, he couldn't even move. The muscles in his face remained placid, and there was something wholly unnatural in the fact that he didn't twitch, didn't blink, didn't even _shake_ as the steel tip of the blade casually pricked the delicate flesh of his lung.

Merlin felt it all, but he didn't so much as flinch.

….

24_ hours earlier_

….

"MERLIN!"

Arthur cursed as the leather strap once again evaded his attempts to tie it, and instead slipped from his fingers and slapped against his thigh with a loud _thwack_, scraping his thumb raw in the process. He cursed loudly and shoved the stinging appendage into his mouth, sucking angrily as he stared with utter helplessness at the ridiculous garb hugging tightly to his body.

Merlin came bursting into the chambers, looking just as ridiculous, though he had somehow managed to correctly don his apparel.

The kingdom of Erib was a strange culture. The city itself was bedecked in colors. Arthur couldn't for the world of him see what the appeal was, but there was a tacit rule throughout the kingdom that the more outrageous colors and ornaments decorated your clothes and your belongings, the more respectable you were. This led to a very heavily class based society, where those who weren't rich enough to paint themselves in refinery were generally shunned and looked down upon with arrogant disgust as being unclean.

Tight clothes, as well, were a huge must. The more strangled your skin was under thin layers of silk and leather, the more respect you were showing for your hosts. The nobles who came to Erib were required to show the utmost esteem for each other and their king. King Baldwin was a persnickety man with a high capacity for getting drunk, a deep affection for his collection of small, ratty dogs, and a rather blasé attitude towards Camelot overall. Arthur had heard him on numerous occasions, during his frequented visits to Erib in his younger years as a fledgling prince, refer to the kingdom using words such as "dull" and "stuffy".

Arthur had done on such occasions what he thought was a fairly good job of keeping his temper in check. Because what Baldwin lacked in intelligence or tolerability he made up for in way of an enormous population of nobles who owed him their undying allegiance. Each with a great deal of fertile land and soldiers at their immediate disposal. Arthur was not a particularly patient man when it came to Baldwin, or the rabble of drooling sycophants who made it their daily practice to kiss his significant behind.

But he had learned a thing or two in the art of diplomacy. And one was that you take whatever preconceptions you have about humanity and its good points, and thrust those out the window. And the bountiful amounts of disdain you feel for the people surrounding you? Swallow it.

As well, he knew that not adhering to the customs of the city was basically political suicide. If he wanted to maintain the allied relations with Erib that his father had worked so hard to create, than he needed to suck it up.

Literally.

Merlin sniffed, one nostril twitching upward imperiously.

"I see things are going well," he drawled.

Arthur glared at him, and the way those skinny legs and arms fit so snugly within their confines of tight, brown leather. Merlin didn't look _good_, exactly. His hair had been slicked back with so much oil it looked painted onto his skull. As well, his eyes had been lined with some sort of fine, black liquid. It was rather girlish and Arthur was only grateful that Merlin was already pale enough that he hadn't been powdered.

But at least he had his clothes fully _on_. At this rate, Arthur would have to send Merlin to the banquet in his place.

"I made my choice, and I stand by it," Arthur replied, holding out his arms by his sides.

Merlin walked over and began lacing the ribbons in Arthur's sleeves so that they practically asphyxiated the muscles in his arms,

"You should have let them fit you," he commented. Arthur snorted,

"Right chance of _that_ happening,"

Merlin just gave him a sidelong smirk, which Arthur pointedly ignored.

Upon arriving in Erib, Arthur had been given the choice of having a ready made outfit presented to him, which was made up of equal parts buttons, snaps, belts, and leather straps designed to paste the clothes as close to his body as possible. Or, he could have stood, naked, on a podium, and had several servants sew the outfit directly onto him, like a mannequin, and then have them tear it off at a later time.

Arthur hadn't hesitated in choosing the first option.

He hissed in pain as Merlin finished tying off the sleeve with a flourish, and moved to the next one. Arthur glared at the pretty bow now dangling from his wrist, and experimentally moved his arm around.

"I never thought you to be the shy type, sire," Merlin ribbed as he wove through the little, metal loops with uncanny skill.

"I can't bend my elbow," Arthur replied, gazing at his stiff arm in concern.

"It really would have meant a lot less work for me," he patted Arthur's side, "Bend down."

"Look, I can't even wiggle my fingers."

"Bend down."

"Are they turning blue?"

"Arthur!" Merlin groused, and the king turned to him with his mouth open. And when Merlin raised an eyebrow, it shut with an audible click.

Grumbling curses to himself, Arthur sucked in his stomach and bent over slightly, creating a hollow around his waist. He watched with no undue amount of alarm as Merlin tightened the beaded belt about another inch or two more.

"Do you want me to suffocate?"

Merlin grinned to himself as he finished his work, and stepped back a few paces,

"No, but you might have to cut down on the sweets tonight."

Arthur waddled over to the body length mirror on the other side of his temporary chamber. His mouth fell open in horror at the image encircled in gold trim.

"Mother of God," he murmured.

A singular piece of clothing had managed to somehow work as a singular, fitted suit all over his body. The stiff material was an unholy mixture of blood red backdrop and swirling, gold patterns. Woven throughout the suit was a black, shimmering ribbon that ran in crisscross paths up and down his limbs, ending in pretty ties at his ankles and wrists.

Worst of all, it was the most indiscreet fit Arthur had ever been subjected to. Every crevice nook and cranny in his body was abhorrently apparent. The belt around his waist was so tight that his stomach seemed to droop over it like an overlong table cloth. His hair had been tied behind his head in what must have been the smallest and dinkiest ponytail in all the history of mankind.

It was at once the most humiliating and putrescent version of himself that Arthur had ever seen, and it was at once incredibly torturous to see, but impossible to look away from.

Merlin appeared beside him in the mirror, hands clasped behind his back, and lips puckered thoughtfully.

"I'm not going," Arthur said, still staring at himself with utter disbelief.

"Oh, yes," Merlin sniffed, and licked his thumb, "you are."

He reached up and tried to wet a stray piece of Arthur's hair. The king snatched his wrist with the speed of a python and glared into his face,

"Don't even think about it."

"Your highness?"

Merlin and Arthur both turned to the tentative voice. A mousy servant stood fidgeting in the doorway, looking highly uncomfortable,

"T-the king is ready for your arrival, sire," he murmured quietly. Arthur nodded,

"Thank you, you may leave,"

The servant bobbed his head obediently and scuttled away.

A moment of silence passed, then Merlin and Arthur turned back toward each other. Merlin looked at Arthur's head,

"It's distracting."

"No."

…..

The banquet hall was drowning in extravagant décor. Streams of ribbons and bouquets coated the walls in suffocating excess. The air smelt so heavily of perfumes that Arthur's eyes began to water only seconds after entering. It was hot and loud the moment he stepped through the door. Some servant announced his name into the uproarious noise echoing through the space, but no one bothered to look up. Cackling laughter and boisterous conversations filled every nook and cranny of the damp, sweltering room.

Arthur was shepherded to a seat by unwelcomed hands. But as he was plopped down in a chair, he looked around and realized that he was five places away from King Baldwin. Anger boiled in his stomach, and it was all he could do not to smash his fist against the table. He came all this way, was heralded into the city as the supposed "guest of honor", and wasn't even being given the chance to speak with Sir Baldwin? It had rained twelve of the sixteen days it had taken to get here. _Twelve_.

Frustration pounded against the sides of his skull, and he reached forward angrily and tore into a large strip of pork.

Surrounding him on all sides were nobles talking animatedly amongst one another,, dismissing manners like any some nasty piece of rotten fish. They were pasted with white powder, faces smeared with rainbow paints. They wore elaborate headdresses, and their skin tight clothes were ornamented with bizarre designs and colors.

The table was covered in a sloppy array of what was startlingly plain food, next to such bedazzle. Gray and brown meats that looked poorly seasoned were thrown into silver dishes with roasted greens and various starches. A salad or two sat at the far corners of the table, untouched. In the middle of the feast was a giant platter where rested the wrinkled face and snout of a roasted pork. The rest had been stripped clean off the bone.

The walls were lined with torches that had been soaked in some kind of strange oil to make the flames burn in odd shades, such as blue and violet and bright green.

Arthur's head began to throb terribly. He barely resisted the urge to rub at his eyes, and settled for fisting his hands in his lap and trying to breathe evenly. He tried not to think about the fact that the people in this room sickened him. That they were sycophantic, pitiful people with more wealth and power than they could ever deserve. He tried not to think about the fact that each and every one of them had devoted their lives to pleasing a man who viewed anyone below his station as being less than dirt on his shoes.

He was failing.

A boisterous laugh to his left caught Arthur's attention. He turned without thinking and felt the surrealness of his surroundings increase tenfold.

Baldwin was a substantial man. His figure was hidden in large rolls of rippling flesh. Long, black, stringy hair stuck closely to his skull, a few stray pieces caught in the non-space between his third and second chins. His eyes were the same coal black as his hair, and just as slick with moisture. His lips and brows were rimmed with dark blue paint, and his cheeks were splashed with rouge. He rocked back in his chair as he howled, wine spilling from a diamond encrusted goblet in his meaty hands. His face was beaded with dripping sweat.

Arthur's lips curled in disgust. He suddenly felt even more suffocated in his constricting clothes and painted lips. This was all so petty. Just the money spent on all these ridiculous outfits would be more than enough to feed an entire village of peasants.

For a year.

His eyes travelled of their own accord, drawn to a figure seated at Baldwin's right hand side. Perhaps it was the incredible placidity of the person in contrast to the king. But whatever the case, he stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of all the activity, dressed all in black with what appeared to be no makeup. It took Arthur a moment or two to recognize him, but then he remembered. Baldwin's son. Marcus.

Someone from Arthur's childhood, it was more of his character than appearance that finally alerted Arthur to his identity. There was still something to be seen of the small, resentful boy he had known as a child. The cool intelligence of his stare still pierced through the haze of madness.

If anything, all the traits Arthur had observed upon knowing him as a boy had only increased and evolved to something more…sophisticated.

Calculating eyes peered out from a well manufactured face, there was neither here nor there of emotion to be seen in his features. He was of a slight, very thin physique, with dark hair and eyes to match his father. His skin was a sheer white glare, his features sharp and angular. He wore all black, and no makeup.

Marcus's dismissal for the proceedings around him brought a puzzled frown to Arthur's face. Never had he seen such a keen opposition of character between a father and son. Even as a child, Marcus had seemed strange to him. He used to say subtly hateful things about his home, and about his family. At the time, Arthur had found it shockingly disrespectful. He used to wonder if Marcus had gained any respect for his family over the years.

Through his impassive gaze, there was no way to tell.

…

There was something of an aura about him, Merlin decided.

He didn't know the name of the young man seated by King Baldwin's right side, but he behaved like a shadow. Silent, and watchful.

Merlin discreetly cast glances towards the man, wondering at his posture which was almost sullen. Slumped against the back of his chair, arms crossed and chin ducked low to his chest. If it weren't for the chill passivity of his features, Merlin would have thought him pouting.

Casually, he strode towards the drunken noble at Baldwin's left, and leaned forward to refill his goblet, hoping to get a closer look at the man. Instead, he flinched in surprise as something tickled the back of his thigh. He turned in alarm to see Baldwin leaning towards him, eyes red and hungry,

"Ye're a pretty one, ain't ye."

"Father," a voice growled warningly, and Merlin turned towards the shadow-like man in surprise.

Father?

Baldwin's face warred between a pout and an upset glare. In that time, Merlin muttered an excuse, and slipped away from his grasp. He scurried from the room, pitcher clutched close to his chest. He leaned against the wall and shivered,

"Yuck," he muttered in disgust.

"I must apologize for my father."

Merlin jumped, spilling a bit of wine as he turned. Baldwin's son stood in front of him, arms crossed and lips lifted slightly in a smirk,

"His tastes have altered a bit since my mother died. He felt he should explore new things."

Merlin swallowed uncomfortably, somehow unable to think coherently past _how did this guy get here so fast?_ Words fell automatically from his mouth,

"That's…okay," he murmured absently, then suddenly remembered himself and bowed, "your highness," he finished hastily.

The man's smile grew a slight bit more. He chuckled breathily,

"Call me Marcus. Don't worry, my interests lie in more conventional areas."

Merlin couldn't hold back a startled laugh at that, though his eyes kept firmly locked away from Marcus's.

It was almost against his own will. And it was strange, muscles in his body seemed to be twitching away from the prince's presence. That dark aura Merlin had observed was only more intensified up close. It made his spine tingle, his stomach flip with nausea. A strange unease buzzed at the back of his throat and he suddenly felt very, very eager to leave.

"Thank you, sire," Merlin said, bowing at the hip, though it caused his stomach to slosh in protest. God, was he getting worse?

Dizziness assaulted Merlin as he straightened, and he had to place a hand against the wall for support,

"Are you alright?" Marcus asked, grasping Merlin's elbow. Merlin bent over, biting back a pained moan as pain coursed through him. Marcus pulled back his hand as if he'd been burned. He looked at his palm, then back at Merlin with wide eyes.

"You have magic," he said, almost in a whisper. Merlin went rigid anyway, his insides freezing with terror. His mind went numb as the world around him seemed to turn in on itself, fracturing at its edges.

"No…N-no I—you're mistaken, I'm not…I would never-" Merlin's hands turned clammy and cold, and he clenched the vase tighter to hide their shaking. He prayed that Marcus wouldn't notice the sweat forming on his brow, his breaths coming faster and harder. He didn't see the hunger in Marcus's eyes as the prince stared at his hand.

Merlin was interrupted before he could become suitably desperate for a miracle.

"You're a sorcerer," Marcus repeated. This time, his voice weighed down with calm fascination. His eyes held an intense scrutiny, and the hand which he had touched Merlin with slowly curled into a fist. He smiled, face brightening as if he had just seen a light at the end of a dark tunnel, "As do I."

Merlin realized his mouth was hanging open far too late, and he shut it with an audible click.

"Uh…" he said intelligibly. Marcus's grin eased into something feral,

"Come with me," he said, snatching Merlin's wrist and taking off down the hall with him in tow.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Alright, here's the next chapy. Thanks so much for the feedback, guys! 8D You're all awesome, awesome, awesome!

...

It was only after several moments of a stunned inability to think that Merlin's senses reappeared to him. He pulled back with alarm, yanking his hand from Marcus's grasp. That was when he realized that the nauseated feeling he'd been having around the prince was gone. The dark aura was still there, brimming just underneath Marcus's pale skin. But Merlin could hardly feel it anymore. The prince turned to him with a quizzical expression on his face, almost curious,

"What's wrong?" he asked. Merlin scoffed, and clumsily set down the vase,

"What's wrong?" he spluttered, "How do I know you're telling the truth? You expect me to just follow you blindly to my impromptu execution af…" Merlin faded off, his mouth falling open slightly as he stared at the flame hovering over Marcus's outstretched palm. He gave Merlin a self-satisfied smirk, the dark orbs of his eyes shining brightly in his skull,

"Like I said. We have something in common," Marcus snuffed out the flame, and let his arm fall, "Still, who could have guessed? Two traitors to the crown in one castle. Rather scandalous, isn't it?"

Merlin shook his head, stunned,

"But…how? You're a prince, Erib hasn't had recorded sorcerer activity for over twenty years."

Surely, his father would have noticed? How could Marcus have managed such a feat of secrecy as a royal, with everyone watching his every move?

Marcus just smiled, and the way he kept doing that was starting to unsettle Merlin,

"The answer is in your question. I'm a prince, I have my resources," he crossed his arms and casually leaned on one hip, "I'm afraid I can't offer any specifics. Anonymity is of the highest priority in this case."

Merlin gazed at him warily. That answer had been far too vague. But something about that crooked grin and easygoing confidence bespoke of a kind of trust, or kinship. Merlin had always longed for someone to be able to connect with regarding magic. But was this real? Was Marcus truly as eager to be allies as he seemed?

"How did you know?" he asked. Marcus cocked his head, seemingly confused, then his face brightened,

"Aah, you mean about you being a sorcerer?" Merlin winced at his loud tone, but Marcus either didn't notice or pretended not to,

"Yes, well," he said, flicking a stray hair away from his face, "It rather oozes off of you, if you hadn't noticed. I'd have to be a rather idiot magician not to see it myself."

Merlin watched him in silence for a few moments, weighing him with sharp eyes. Marcus met his gaze evenly, features relaxed and unchallenged.

Finally,

"What was it you wanted to show me?" Merlin asked reluctantly. Marcus's eyes lit up with excitement,

"I-"

"Merlin?"

Both Marcus and Merlin turned to see Arthur standing behind them with suspicious eyes. He looked ragged and tired, with a bit of wine spilled on the front of his shirt. His molded hair had gone somewhat out of whack, a few pieces falling in front of his weary, but intense eyes.

"What is going on?" he asked, exchanging glances between his manservant and Marcus in turn, "Is everything alright?"

Merlin's mind froze of its own accord. Luckily, Marcus spoke before he even had the chance, stepping forward with his hands folded behind his back,

"Ah, yes, quite. I was merely offering apologies to your fine servant, here. I'm afraid my father may have behaved unsuitably this evening, and wished to extend my sympathies."

Arthur's eyes narrowed even further, his jaw clenching with suspicion. Marcus just flashed him a charming smile. Arthur raised an eyebrow at Merlin questioningly. Merlin looked from him to Marcus. Smiling tightly with his lips, he nodded reassuringly at his king, unsure what else to do.

Arthur gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, than reasserted his attention on Marcus. He offered a polite half-bow, and smiled thinly at the prince,

"Well, thank you for your attentiveness. I'm afraid I must be retiring, and require my manservant's presence."

Marcus bowed in return,

"Of course, of course. May our accommodations award you a restful sleep."

Arthur nodded cordially, but watched Marcus impassively until the dark prince turned the corner and disappeared seamlessly into the shadows.

…..

"I feel like we came all this way for nothing. Baldwin hardly even knows we're here, and his court is hardly better. And I know my father struggled to maintain an alliance between Camelot and this…this _place_," Arthur spat the word like it was foul on his tongue, "But I'm not entirely sure it's for the best anymore. Camelot hasn't needed aid from Erib in years, and I'm just not sure if it's worth the expenditures in our treasury and…Merlin, are you listening?"

Merlin fumbled with the straps on Arthur's arm, his mind preoccupied with its own questions. His brain sluggishly caught up with what Arthur was saying a few seconds too late.

"Mmm," he replied automatically, then looked up, "Wait…what?" Arthur rolled his eyes,

"Really, I don't even know why I keep you around." Merlin smiled winningly,

"Because, I'm a fine servant."

"Yes, about that, what exactly did he mean?" Arthur asked as Merlin finished unlacing Arthur's suit and began peeling it off of him.

"To whom," Merlin grunted breathlessly as he struggled to pull the suit down past Arthur's waist, "might you be referring?"

"Marcus," Arthur replied, his brow furrowing with thoughtful wrinkles, "He said his father had behaved badly towards you. How so?"

Merlin shimmied around to Arthur's front and tugged down the fabric around his legs,

"Could mean any number of things," Merlin bantered, patting Arthur's leg. Arthur's voice was not amused as he moved to the bed and sat down,

"Did he touch you?"

Merlin flinched and sat back on his haunches, pulling off Arthur's boots one at a time. He didn't answer at first, but finished undressing Arthur, then reached into his wardrobe and pulled out a pair of loose trousers for the king to sleep in.

"Merlin," Arthur started reproachfully as Merlin walked by and tossed him the trousers,

"It's not a big deal," he replied, staring out the window towards the kingdom's flower bedecked courtyard as Arthur dressed into his nightclothes, "He was just drunk."

Merlin felt a sudden hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Arthur staring at him intently. Merlin's breath caught at the piercing sternness in his eyes.

"If you're sure," he said, eyes earnest and imploring. Merlin swallowed, then nodded,

"Yeah." Arthur watched him a few more seconds, then abruptly turned around and plopped onto his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"Alright then. If you say so."

Merlin quickly recovered, and threw a smile on to dissipate the awkwardness, though nothing could quite do that. It had been there between them for the past twenty days, like a metaphysical wall. One they tried staunchly to ignore.

"Aww, so you do care," Merlin cooed, walking over to the door leading to the servant's designated antechambers,

Arthur snorted,

"Right, so I let you think."

"So I let you think that you let me think."

"_Mer_lin."

"Sorry, I know," Merlin raised his hands in surrender, "Every princess needs her beauty sleep."

Merlin opened the door to his chambers, but stopped and turned back,

"Oh, and Arthur," the king peeked out from under his arm. Merlin continued, "Do what you think is right. Camelot's running on your instincts now, not your father's."

With that, he closed the door behind him, and collapsed onto his cot. He buried his face in his pillow, and tried to sort through the whirlwind of thoughts rushing through his head.

Marcus. Who was he really. Everything about him, from his mannerisms to his words, gave Merlin mixed feelings. He seemed genuine. And he had magic. But what was his motive? Merlin had never heard of someone else, besides himself of course, being able to feel another person's magic. Did this mean that Marcus was like him in some way? That would explain the strange aura emitting from him. But why had he made Merlin sick one moment, and then not the next? Had it had something to do with the physical contact? And if he was like Merlin, did that mean he had some role to play in the dragon's prophecy? Did that mean Merlin should trust him?

But what if Marcus was lying? What if he did tell his father about Merlin's magic? Merlin's gut told him no, but there was really no way to be sure.

Before Merlin drifted off to sleep, with a plethora of unanswered questions and incomplete worries, he reached a vague conclusion. He needed to seek out Marcus, on his own terms, and get the prince to talk. Maybe there was some way for them to work together, to exchange magical assistance between the kingdoms in times of crisis. Maybe Merlin might have a confidant with similar powers to his own. Marcus was interesting, and Merlin felt drawn to him as a potential friend and ally.

But first he needed to find out if he could really trust him.

With that in mind, Merlin fell into a light slumber.

…

He got up early the next morning to explore the castle a bit.

It was very different from Camelot. The colors were rich and warm, the halls lined with various shades of torchlight. The stone floors, made of dark granite, were often lined in layers of thick, musty carpet. Occasionally, Merlin spotted decorations and artifacts laying in haphazard piles on roughhewn shelves that had been carved directly into the stone walls.

The corridors were overall smaller, the rounded ceilings low, and the sloping walls narrow. The compact architecture captured warmth and smells in thick clouds. Everywhere you went, your senses were bombarded, your nose and mouth crowded with warring scents and tastes. Merlin longed for the open, airy halls of Camelot, and the light, grey tones of its walls.

Once suitably satisfied with his perusal of the castle, Merlin made his way down to the palace kitchens. Compared to the superfluous ornateness of the rest of the castle, the cuisine of Erib was startlingly, well…not.

As Merlin walked into the kitchens, a warm wave that smelt of equal parts burnt food and the by-products of underdone pork loins washed over him, making his stomach churn uncomfortably. He struggled not to cover his nose as he entered the area, looking through the throng of moving, disorganized bodies. Pots of bubbling, brown stew sat atop the fire at the far wall of the room, chunks of food dripping out from underneath their rattling lids, which sizzled as they hit the flames.

Sloppy piles of rye and barley bread were stacked on a wooden table that dominated the middle of the room, along with plates of unidentifiable cheese. Greasy sausages and eggs were combined in a large bowl at the center of the table. Various vegetables and fruits were scattered in small amounts around the rest. Merlin had no idea what else was being served. The stew might actually have been some kind of gravy…but he couldn't be sure. A foul aroma was wafting from the stove as well, but Merlin wasn't about to try and find out more. Smoke had accumulated in a swirling mass on the ceiling. The workers moved back and forth with the sluggish haze of people longing for their beds. Hardly anyone noticed Merlin's entrance.

He ducked his head and quickly snatched a plate from a pile of clean dishes, then proceeded towards the food. He tried to ignore the bodies jostling him as he scooped eggs and meat and bread onto the plate. He managed to snatch a handful of fruit in the chaos. It took an unexpected trip to the far corner of the room and a charming smile at a young, blonde servant girl, but he found himself outside the kitchen clutching a mug of warm cider, as well.

Merlin slowly, careful not to spill anything, turned and started back towards Arthur's chambers. He'd be waking up by now. Merlin smirked, imagining his reaction to the food. He'd be appalled, somewhat affronted, he might throw something…

"I beg your pardon, young sir," a low, grandfatherly voice sounded in front of Merlin. He looked up to see a paunchy man in probably his mid-sixties, with salty hair and an exquisite handlebar mustache and beard staring down at him. He was very tall, well over six feet, with sparkling blue eyes and crinkles around his eyes and mouth. He wore a simple brown tunic, trousers, and cloak.

"Might you direct me towards where you procured that-" he inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes closing in pleasure, "-delicious smelling cuisine?" he spoke slowly, and with many contemplative pauses inbetween his words. He opened his eyes and stared past Merlin down the hallway, as if he could see the trail of fumes leading back to the kitchen.

Merlin smiled at him, finding something charming about the old man and his silly demeanor,

"Of course, just keep going straight and then turn left at the first door you see."

The man looked back at Merlin, a look of startled gratefulness in his features,

"Why, thank you, Merlin. I am obliged to you."

"Not at all."

With that, the old man ambled past him and made his way down the hall, looking oddly enormous in the small corridor.

It was only after several more steps in the direction to Arthur's chambers that Merlin realized the

old man had used his name.

He didn't remember giving it.

….

When Merlin returned to Arthur's chambers, it was to find the king shouting death threats at a songbird outside his window.

"-and you think that'll be painful? Oh, no, or I will show you the true meaning of agony you loud feathery little ball of-"

"Too much wine, Arthur?" Merlin inquired, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice as he set Arthur's plate and mug on the rectangle table next to the door. The king turned to him with hair that looked like it had been licked by a cow in the middle of the night, and an expression that could have curdled dairy. His shirt was hanging half out of his pants, and had slipped off his shoulder. He looked at Merlin, then at the plate of food, then back to Merlin, then back to the food. He sniffed,

"What is that?" he asked with a look of contempt on his face. He might as well have been staring at a fresh pile of dung.

"Your breakfast," Merlin replied. Arthur glared at him,

"That is not breakfast. Breakfast is supposed to be made of food," Merlin rolled his eyes and plopped down in a chair,

"Very well then, if you don't want it…" he plucked up a sausage and brought it to his mouth.

"That won't be necessary," Arthur said flatly, pouting as he sat down next to his manservant and snatched the meat from his hand. Merlin smirked and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms,

"So, rough morning?" he asked politely. Arthur sneered at him,

"Hardly."

"Just wishing there were fewer birds in this world?"

"Oh, there will be by this afternoon if I have anything to say about it."

Merlin laughed and Arthur smiled wryly. The food, however unqualified for royalty, seemed to be improving his mood.

"Don't believe me?" Arthur groused with a smirk, raising the mug of cider to his lips. Merlin huffed insolently,

"I saw you take down a unicorn, Arthur," he said as he watched Arthur down a few draughts then pull the mug away from his face, "I am quite aware of your propensity for killing pretty things." Arthur grimaced, pausing with the mug still halfway away from the table,

"Did you have to bring that up?" he groaned, setting it down. Merlin folded his hands behind his head,

"What? Still upset that I was right the whole time?" Arthur crossed his arms and slouched a bit,

"No. A lot of people almost died," he grabbed an apple and bit into it with a loud crunch, indicating to Merlin with a finger, "Including you."

"Oh, don't worry Arthur," Merlin swung his legs onto the table and grinned, "I'm not that easy to get rid of."

For the second time since they'd arrived here, the door opening interrupted their conversation.

"Oh, thank God!" Gwaine exclaimed as he trotted inside, slamming the door behind him in a way that made Arthur wince,

"Gwaine!" he yelled angrily, but the knight had already flown toward Arthur's bed, arms raised above his head, and thrust himself upon it.

"_Pillows_," he moaned happily, voice muffled by the cushions on his face. Arthur's face turned red, and he jumped up from the table and stalked forward,

"Gwaine!" he roared again, and lunged for the knight's ankles. Gwaine squealed and scrambled away, hugging his legs to his chest as though scandalized,

"Arthur!" he gawked. Merlin laughed so hard he fell out of his chair. Arthur snarled at him, then turned and made a flying leap at Gwaine. The two tumbled out of the bed and onto the floor. Merlin stood and danced over them, making his way into the antechamber when Arthur grabbed at his ankles.

He shut the door behind him, and fell back on his cot, chuckling, but then glanced down at the sound of crackling paper. He'd sat down partially on top of a plain, brown envelope. Merlin picked it up and looked it over. Unsigned.

He frowned, and magically probed the envelope for spells. Nothing. Satisfied, he stuck his finger underneath the flap and ripped it open. He pulled out the letter, which read in an elegant, tidy scrawl:

_Merlin,_

_I have, by some stroke of luck, managed to procure a fascinating artifact of sorts pertaining to our mutual interest. I would be greatly pleased if we might study it together. Meet me in my chambers when you receive this letter, if this be of interest to you. I have reason to believe that it may be useful to both of us._

_Eagerly awaiting your arrival,_

_ Marcus._

Merlin laid the letter in his lap and considered, the sounds of Gwaine and Arthur fighting in the next room filling the did Marcus mean by his "endeavors"? Was it possible that the prince knew of his position defending Camelot?If that were true, than Marcus was either deciding not to tell his father, or was just waiting for the opportune moment.

Merlin stared at his open palm. Was it possible that this was meant to be? That he would find a genuine friend who also has magic?

But roots of suspicion ran deep in Merlin. He clenched his hand into a fist, the beginnings of a spell snaking through his fingers. He would go see Marcus's artifact, with a cautious hope.

Whatever happened, he couldn't let any magical object be left in the hands of someone he had yet to fully trust.

…

Merlin snuck out into the hallway from his chambers and started making his way towards the prince's chambers. He remembered Arthur's off-hand remark that he and Merlin had been placed a level below the prince. So, Merlin guessed it should be pretty easy to find it. He stuffed the envelope in his jacket and took his time strolling down the corridors. He was in no hurry after all.

As he moved through the glimmering torchlight, his boots scuffing the elegantly woven rugs laid on the floor, he couldn't help but feel optimism sneaking into his demeanor. Maybe this would be a turning point for him. To finally, just maybe, have a friend who knew exactly what he could do. Even Lancelot had never been that for him. Merlin had been incredibly grateful for his understanding and friendship, but Lancelot hadn't known the first thing about magic. And being Arthur's knight had only made it more impossible for Merlin to share any specifics with him. Gaius knew of Merlin's abilities, but Merlin had long ago stopped badgering his mentor with them. He never told anyone about the sudden surges of power when he performed spells, the all-encompassing energy that threatened to overwhelm him each time the ancient words fell from his lips. As he grew older, honing in on his talents, it became harder and harder to rein in his magic when he practiced incantations. It was like trying to stopper a crumbling dam with handfuls of hay. No one knew but Merlin.

But perhaps, that could change.

As he ascended the stone, winding staircase to the next level of the castle, Merlin noticed a change. The number of torches began to dwindle, spacing farther apart, sputtering dimly in the increasing darkness. Decorations became dispersed, less and less of them appearing until, finally, as Merlin entered the hallway he believed Marcus's room to be in, they disappeared entirely.

Merlin felt a strange unease crawl into his gut. A heavy feeling in the air fell down upon him like a cold fog. The hallway looked ominous, foreboding, with torchlight dancing eerily on the black walls and bare, dark floor. A wet chill hung in the air. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the hall, bending the flames of the torches in half and hitting Merlin with a spray of dark energy. He panted, thrusting his hand out at his side so flames spurted to life on his fingertips. He turned around, and came face to face with a set of black eyes.

"Boo."

And then a hand was on his chest, and a blast of fire tore through his body.

….

A/N: Uh, oh. Cliffy. Xb Leave me a review and we'll see how fast I can whip up the next one. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey, guys. :D Here's the next chapy. Thanks so much for your support and reviews! Enjoy!

**Warning: This chapter is pretty creepy! It's not very graphic, but it _is_ dark, and definitely not recommended for people who have a hard time stomaching sad and rather horrifying deaths. Have fun! **

...

Agony and magic burst into Merlin's chest. He flew backwards, red spots drowning his vision as he tumbled through the air. He landed hard on his back, head slamming into the stone with a loud _crack_. He lay breathless, twitching and gasping as the spell burning inside of him cooled like melted wax, tendrils of dark magic snaking through his limbs. The incantation seamlessly took effect.

Slowly, slowly, the cold feeling seeped away; the magic assimilated into his body without pause for effect. Merlin felt his joints losing their tension, his arms going limp at his sides. He felt his fingers unfurl, his knees tip over. His eyes flicked about, then went still inside of his skull. His panting breaths were the only sounds to be heard over the loud thumping of his heart.

Silence enveloped the corridor. Merlin lay, staring at the wall, unable to blink or move his eyes, unable to calm his racing heart. It wasn't just his muscles that were unresponsive; his entire _body _had been ripped from his control. His breathing was functioning autonomously, as was his heart, both working in untimed rhythm against his mental grasp. He couldn't control anything. He was completely, and utterly helpless. He tried to call for his magic, but even that lay dormant inside of him.

He was paralyzed.

Merlin fought, without success, the growing panic in his chest. He struggled to form words, but his lips, slightly parted, remained stiff and uncooperative. He fought to move his arms, to funnel a bit of magic to his hands, to…to _anything_. But he couldn't.

That was when Merlin realized that the sound of approaching footsteps had been prodding at his awareness for the past few moments.

He poured all his energy, strength and focus into his right hand, pushing and pushing it to _move_ to _twitch_.

The deliberate, encroaching footsteps were growing louder, chiseling away at Merlin's calm, echoing through the stone passageway like the steady beat of a drum.

Merlin's magic seized uselessly in response to his touch. Frustration squeezed his insides in a hot, iron vice at that endless _clomp clomp clomp _of boots against stone then-

A face, in front of his, black hair dangling down towards the floor, eyes staring into his with a violating intensity.

Lips curled in a cheerful smirk,

"Good evening, Merlin. I'm glad to see you received my letter," Marcus said pleasantly.

…

Baldwin came out of nowhere, materializing in front of Arthur from the hallway to his left, prodigious and utterly impossible to ignore in all his girth. He intercepted him, and Arthur had to fight not to peek past him in search of Merlin's rapidly disappearing figure. However, he did manage to catch a glimpse of his manservant entering what looked like a spiraling staircase. Arthur had followed Merlin when he left his room, hoping to catch him in the act of, well, whatever it was he'd suddenly had to leave to do.

Gwaine was still hanging from Arthur's bedpost by his toes.

Arthur smiled up at Baldwin, only able to hide the loathing he felt for the man by recalling the memory of Gwaine's purple face. Baldwin was bedecked in a solely horrifying costume with birds as its main focus. Feathers of all shapes and colors trailed up and down his garment, glued to a nude colored fabric, making it look, essentially, as if his legs were rather covered in feathers than human hair. He wore a towering headdress that Arthur saw, with no undue amount of disgust and shock, was the neck, head and fanned, rainbow tail of a dead peacock.

"Oh," Baldwin cried with delight, clapping his substantial fingers together, "Hello, my dear boy. You hail from Cantdorot, correct?" Arthur bit back a growl,

"Camelot," he corrected rather stiffly. Baldwin looked confused,

"No, no I'm fairly certain. It is Cantdorot,"

"It's n-"

"Oh, no matter!" Baldwin waved his hands dismissively, smiling down at Arthur as if he were a particularly amusing puppy, "You must be very busy. I'll let you get back to it."

Arthur wanted nothing more than to leave. But considering the insanity that seemed so commonplace throughout the whole bloody kingdom, this might be his only chance to get Baldwin alone.

"Sire, I had hoped that I might find you. I wished to discuss the shipping availabilities on the main trading routes between-"

"My dear boy, don't you ever have any fun?" Baldwin cooed sympathetically. Arthur felt the heat of anger starting to cloud his head, and it was all he could do not to lash out,

"Forgive me, sire, I merely wish to resolve the dispute that has been plaguing-"

"I saw you leave the party early last night," Baldwin cocked his head at Arthur, giving him a mischievous, knowing glance, "Was the wine not to your taste? Or, perhaps the company," he chuckled after this, as if it were the silliest of notions that anyone might find him or his rabble the slightest bit unpleasant.

Arthur's lip turned upward into a disgusted sneer against his own will. Acid roiled in his stomach,

"Actually, I was …"

"Oh, terribly sorry, chap, but I must be on my way now," Baldwin sighed and touched his cheek with an exaggerated dreaminess on his face, "The life of a king is so very trying."

Arthur didn't know whether to retch or throw a wild left hook, but Baldwin had already gone before he could decide.

Arthur shook his head, and tried to reassert himself in reality. His mind wandered to Merlin's words the night before, of following his gut.

Well, right now his gut was screaming at him to burn this castle to the ground and dance on the ashes. But then again, that probably wouldn't turn out very well for the surrounding wildlife. Arthur regretfully shook his head, then resumed chasing after his manservant.

…..

Merlin supposed he should be feeling betrayed, or disappointed. And he was, to some extent. But in all honesty, the circumstances in which he found himself only served to compound a sense of self-deprecation in his chest.

He should have known this was coming. He should have been more careful.

He should have known not to be so stupid.

_Too late now_.

The words chimed in his head, even as Marcus hefted up his legs and started dragging him across the tiles. It was too late. And now Merlin was utterly helpless, unable to move or fight as the man who had manipulated him so embarrassingly easily now pulled him across the floor toward God knows what.

Merlin watched the ceiling slide by, praying for a miracle, a solution, an escape.

Instead, all he got was a stab of pain as his ankles met the floor, a light slap on his cheek, and two hands on either side of his head, moving it to a tilted back position. Merlin hated the vulnerability. Frustration and fear began to suffocate his chest. He felt himself starting to shake. Involuntary muscular movement. He wanted nothing more than to kick out and run away, to throw his hands up in deadly preparation to throw a spell. But all he could was stare up listlessly and let the dust collect on his fading hope.

Marcus started situating his limbs, and Merlin felt rage at this man for touching him, for controlling him so _casually_. When Marcus's face entered his vision, it was apathetic and concentrated, as if he were working with bits of lumber.

Merlin was being _handled_. And it made him want to kill something.

"Oh, dear, you're mad at me aren't you?" Marcus said suddenly, somehow impossibly able to read Merlin's emotions through an expressionless face. Merlin would have jumped if he still had any modicum of say so over his own body.

"Well," Marcus continued in a tone that suggested Merlin should feel honored to be here. An unholy mixture of rage and fear filled his gut, "Don't worry. It will all be over soon."

Marcus stared down into Merlin's eyes with tender sympathy. It was disgusting and horrible and Merlin couldn't stand the righteous, justified light in Marcus's gaze. Panic strangled his lungs. What did he mean…'over'?

And then, another voice filled the silence, shocked, confused, fearful…furious.

"…Merlin?"

Oh, God.

Arthur.

…

.

It took Arthur all of three seconds to see, to understand, and to act.

_ONE_

Merlin lying still on the floor, eyes wide and gazing frozenly up at the ceiling. Marcus kneeling by his side, staring at Arthur with a look of minor annoyance, and surprise.

_TWO_

Something was wrong with Merlin. And it didn't look as if Marcus was offering aid. Merlin's arms were lain by his sides, his legs pulled out in front of him. He was breathing, but he wasn't moving. He looked fully conscious, his eyes shining with wakefulness and what might have been fear. He'd been put in that position. Someone had done it to him.

Marcus was the only one there.

_THREE_

"What did you do to him?" Arthur roared, charging forward.

He was met with an invisible wall.

He fell back to the stone with a loud grunt of pain. There was a moment of fixated shock. And then he scrambled to his knees and pounded the unseen shield with his fists.

"What is this?" he whispered, glaring at Marcus with fury. He looked down at Merlin, then back to the man with hatred, "What have you done?!" he demanded.

Marcus cocked his head at him, as if intrigued. He sighed and closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair,

"Oh, you really weren't supposed to be here," he said in a voice so mild and passively accepting that it chilled Arthur to the bone. It was as if, to Marcus, he offered no threat at all. It was as if Arthur provoked as much inconvenience as a fly might, or a stubborn itch.

Arthur slammed his fist against the shield, but Marcus just sniffed and raised his gaze to the ceiling. He breathed in and exhaled slowly, then flicked his nose with his thumb. He looked back to Arthur, his eyes calm and twinkling with mirth,

"Very well, then. I suppose you'll just have to join us," he looked down at Merlin's prone form with a gracious smile, and Arthur's insides twisted in alarm. Everything inside of him was _screaming_ at him to lunge forward and shove that man as far away from Merlin as possible. But all he could do was press harder against the invisible wall and growl deep in his throat.

"Looks like we have an audience, Merlin," Marcus said cheerily, then turned his icy gaze on Arthur, "Perhaps, we can make this fun." With that, he smoothly reached into his coat and pulled out a knife.

Arthur thrashed and beat against the wall, his whole body heating up with fury,

"Get away from him, you bastard! Don't touch him!"

Marcus just smirked at Arthur, and calmly set down the knife. Arthur started feeling along the shield, cursing loathingly under his breath as he struggled to find some kind of break, some catch or niche, _anything_ to help him break through.

"Oh, that's not going to work, I'm afraid," Marcus reached into his coat again, and this time pulled out a small, ornate jar the color of jade. It was about the size of Arthur's fist, covered in golden designs. Arthur watched Marcus set it down, and something about it felt…wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and Arthur tried unsuccessfully to hide the fear threatening to break through on his face. Marcus eyed him with growing amusement. The longer he smiled, the more Arthur wanted to kill him.

"The enchantment is impenetrable. Much like the one I put over the staircase," he scratched his chin thoughtfully, eyeing Arthur as though he were a very odd animal, "I suppose the spell must have taken effect after you had already crossed the boundary," he shrugged dismissively, "No matter, you're here now, and we'll just have to make the best of it."

He looked down at Merlin, as if expecting some sort of agreeing response. But Merlin remained still, everything about him so completely _still_. His eyes remained locked to the ceiling, his face lax. His chest rose and fell quickly, almost panting, the only sign of his consciousness, of the terror and panic he must be feeling. Arthur felt fury clouding his head, heating his face. His hands clenched into sweaty fists,

"What did you do to him?" he seethed through clenched, creaking teeth. Marcus looked at him with lazy surprise, as if he hadn't expected Arthur to do much but sit there and yell.

"Temporary immobilization," he answered flatly, retrieving a crisp white cloth from the inside of his cloak, "But never fear, my task shall be finished before the effects dissimilate." Arthur's eyes widened. His whole body stiffened; his fists tightened. The glinting edge of the dagger glared at the corners of his vision,

"What…What do you mean?" he asked slowly, fearfully. Marcus just looked into his eyes and grinned. His teeth were blindingly white, but horribly crooked. He didn't answer. Instead, he gently placed the jar in his palm, and held it up for Arthur to see,

"It is my unequivocal pleasure to introduce to you the ancient soul of his royal majesty, King Azariun Otavia."

For awhile, the soft crackling of torch flames was the only sound to be heard.

Marcus's expectant smile slowly faded,

"Oh, God, save me from the ignorance of my fellow man," he sighed regretfully, "Azariun Octavia, he was the most powerful dark sorcerer to have ever lived. Exiled into seclusion for his practices in necromancy and black magic. Does any of this summon the long lost memories of your undoubtedly very expensive education, highness?"

Arthur stared at him blankly, fists shaking with suppressed emotions. His mind scrambled for an escape plan, some means of salvation.

Abruptly, he stood, and ran back towards the staircase. If he could find Gwaine fast enough, if he could just-

He slammed into another unseen surface, and fell back roughly. He roared in anger and pain, livid frustration twisting his gut as he stood and ran back towards Marcus and Merlin. Shouting, he threw his shoulder against the shield. Again and again and again. His mind was clouded with the insatiable _need_ to get through and get through _now_.

Somewhere along the way, his shoulder popped cleanly out of place.

A wave of pain exploded through Arthur's body. His teeth clacked together as his knees buckled beneath him. He locked his jaw in place, repressing a scream.

He didn't realize he had fallen to the floor until Marcus eyes were peering straight into his,

"You're not particularly bright, are you?" Marcus mused with a minor perplexity on his face, "I thought I told you that the shield was impenetrable."

Arthur slapped his palm against the shield where Marcus's nose should have been. A loud boom reverberated through the hallway.

Arthur stared at the dark prince with hatred.

Marcus's eyes narrowed. He leaned back into place, and casually began rolling up his sleeves,

"The thing about Auzarian is, no one really knew what happened to him. After his banishment, he vanished off the face of written history. A shame, really. I have had the unique pleasure of hearing his stories; each one is a practical legend in and of itself." Marcus's eyes glazed over with a slight, distant fog as he folded up his second sleeve,

"He is still powerful, of course, with a desire for great conquest. He has this incredible…," he rubbed his fingers together, working his lips , "vision…" he gazed at Arthur with glimmering eyes, "But you see, he needs a body. And it was only until yesterday that I could find one with enough endurance for withstanding magic as he requires. I met Merlin."

Red filled Arthur's vision. The mention of magic only faintly registered in the back of his mind, unimportant. All he could see was Merlin's prostrate form, and all he could hear was the chime of dread in his ears. Marcus was going to hurt Merlin.

He shot forward, punching his knuckles into the invisible wall with a hoarse shout,

"Keep your filthy hands away from him, you slimy cur," he warned, the anger dripping from his mouth poorly masking the tight fear and growing despair slowly consuming him. Marcus turned to Arthur with a look of minor bewilderment,

"Oh, don't make such a fuss. I'm only going to kill him a little," he retracted his hand, unappreciative of Arthur's at once furious and terrified gaze. He reached down, grabbed the hem of Merlin's tunic, and began lifting. Merlin's chest started to rise and fall more rapidly.

Arthur went berserk against the shield, slamming his fists into it with all the force he could muster. His shoulder wailed with pain, but he ignored it.

"NO! GET AWAY FROM HIM!" he screamed. Marcus paid him no heed, continuing until Merlin's chest was fully exposed. He then picked up the knife. Arthur's insides froze, and his limbs locked, raised above his head. His eyes, wide with horror, could only watch helplessly as Marcus began prodding Merlin's ribs.

"I need the soul to leave this body, but I don't want to cause too much damage. Healing spells are such a drag," Marcus narrated casually, as if he were merely a butcher deciding what parts to trim off a slab of meat, "So, I'll leave the major organs over here," he hovered his hand over Merlin's stomach, "intact. But if I just prick his lungs a bit, all I'll have to do in way of repairs is a bit of draining and stitching. And voila!" he exclaimed proudly, "A new body for his royal highness."

Arthur's head buzzed with heavy swarm of hot rage. A cyclone of fear sucked at his insides, stealing his breath back down his throat.

"No…" he choked, "…you can't. No! NO, don't you touch him! Don't you _dare _touch him, you filthy _bastard_! STOP!"

But Marcus didn't spare him so much as a halted breath. He carried on with his work, casually, logically, methodically. Every motion he made suggested an apathy and professionalism of a man going about everyday tasks. Not one movement betrayed the significance of their purpose, to take a man's life. To take _Merlin_'s life.

All at once, the incredible madness of the man in front of him became clear to Arthur. And all at once, the anger fell away, the frustration dissipated, and both were replaced with a cold, hard _terror_.

There was no drama. There was no ceremony. Arthur's hoarse and disparaging cries, his hateful curses, his pleas might as well have been wasted breath.

Marcus didn't hesitate. He placed a hand on Merlin's chest, positioned the knife at a point between his ribs.

And swiftly drove the blade in and out.

Arthur's screams died into silence.

Merlin's body shuddered. But his face remained blank.

Marcus didn't pause for effect. He leaned a bit, and casually stabbed through Merlin's second lung with the same brief speed as he had the first.

Arthur didn't breathe.

He didn't think, he didn't feel. His entire being…body, soul, mind, heart…had gone numb. Had surrendered.

He just stared at Merlin's stuttering, struggling chest. He just stared as Marcus lay the cloth atop the welling blood, and lowered Merlin's shirt back down. He just stared as the dark prince sat back and waited.

He just stared, watching, unable to tear his eyes away as pure horror slowly encapsulated him in its icy shell, and despair crushed his heart in its iron fist.

The will to fight bled from his body in a slow stream. His hands slid down the magic shield, his body slumped silently downward.

It wasn't quick.

Merlin was drowning in his own blood.

Seconds of unutterable change passed. Then, slowly, a change began.

Merlin's chest fell up and down in random, scattered jolts. His breaths grew progressively wet and ragged and halting. And then he started choking, crimson blood appearing on his lips.

And all the while, his face betrayed none of the pain he must have been feeling. His wide, disturbingly still eyes never looked Arthur's way, never flickered or strayed.

More time passed, at once slow and rapid. Every moment that passed, Merlin's closeness to death became more apparent.

And Arthur could only watch, silent and empty.

Everything grew a bit more desperate near the end. Merlin's body began to convulse, fighting futilely for air. The choking became louder.

Marcus moaned with irritation, breaking the spell of shock that had been smothering Arthur to that moment,

"Oh, dear, so dramatic," Marcus rolled his eyes, "He's fighting it."

He reached into his coat, and pulled out a white handkerchief.

Arthur's mind was foggy, disbelieving. Everything around him felt like some horrible, twisted dream.

But when Marcus pressed the handkerchief firmly over Merlin's mouth and nose, the fog was as suddenly gone as if it had been incinerated.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM, DON'T TOUCH HIM! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"Arthur screamed in pure anguish, his voice breaking and scraping against his raw, shorn throat.

Once again, Marcus offered no signs that he had even heard. He just kept plugging away Merlin's last vestiges of air.

Arthur never saw it happening. The breaths never dwindled slowly away.

One minute, Merlin was choking and retching. The next, a little, shuddering gasp.

A small puff of breath, muffled by a strip of cloth.

A chest deflating.

Arthur waited…

And waited.

And waited.

But there was nothing more to wait for.

Darkness swam through the air around him. The flickering torchlight offered no warmth.

Silence caressed his soul with its icy claws.

Marcus leaned over Merlin's face curiously, then bent down and rested an ear against his chest.

Arthur couldn't scream, couldn't protest, couldn't threaten. His eyes remained locked on Merlin's, searching for that fabled light of life in their frozen depths.

"_And_…" Marcus said, drawing out the word as if it tasted sweet, and holding up a finger in a gesture to _wait for it_. His eyes rolled about in his head eagerly as he pushed closer against Merlin. Then, he nodded, and closed his eyes contentedly, "There we go."

The fact that Marcus had heard the last beat of Merlin's heart…

Hatred grew in Arthur like a cancer, so black and searing and blisteringly pure…nothing would ever be able to describe it.

The things he would have done if that shield weren't blocking his way…it would have damaged the soul of anyone who saw.

But Arthur wouldn't have cared.

_To Be Continued…_


End file.
